


Expendable at best

by vertigo



Series: JayTim Week: Valentine’s Day  Edition 2017 [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Issues, JayTim Week, M/M, jaytimweek: vde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9802499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertigo/pseuds/vertigo
Summary: “I’ll be watching you, Tim.” No comforting words, no questions about how he’s doing. Expendable at best, his mind repeats to him. Tim rises up to the challenge, cocking his chin and crossing his arms—he still feels small when compared to Bruce, but now there’s a surge of bitterness, bubbling with bile on his throat and he can’t stop the snarl that twists his lips.“You watch the whole Gotham, Bruce.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> What happened to day three? We don't talk about that. But we do talk about how it's [rockitz](http://rockitz.tumblr.com/) fault for showing me the light with Jason Tummy, I mean, Todd. Thank you for your blessing.

 

Training under Bruce Wayne rarely left someone with something good as a reminder—once the layers of physical training and philosophic phrases are taken out, the only thing left is an unhealthy amount of paranoia that starts with the little things.

 

Objects that weren’t in the same place as they were in the morning (even though the rational side of his brain tells him that there are two more people in the house) and sounds that seems too threatening, even if they should be completely normal (the flap of something’s wings, a siren wailing far away, the screams of a kid). The mundane world is reduced to calculations of how far danger is, spiraling slowly into a lunacy, a cacophony of sounds and smells that seems foreign to him. Tim is detached from the real world—has been for years since the mantle of Robin was taken away and he was forced, _for his own good_ , to live a regular life.

 

A regular life that entailed on visits from Ra’s al Ghul ninjas, carrying notes for him to join Ra’s. A life knowing who were the people behind masks and what commotion would start for each Arkham patient who’s released. A life with semi-regular visits from his old friends from Teen Titans— as the years progressed, the visits dimmed, each one of them finding a way for themselves, they turned into  a well-oiled machine without him. There’s a myriad of feelings consuming him—jealousy, paranoia _, depression_. Dana forced him to clean his room weekly, took him into therapy sessions, made him create vases (that he would smash during the most delirious nights). He was left with nothing but the dreaded feeling that gravity weights more against his shoulders than everyone else’s and a hole in his chest.

 

Sleep never comes easy—Tim stays awake, staring at the ceiling until he feels the first rays of sunshine and gravity shifts again, he puts a smile for his family, avoids the newspapers, holes himself in his college, biting his nails and drinking too much coffee. He doesn’t know how he aces the exams, how he can put up a happy smiley face when his friends whisper about what Batman did last night and goes home with the same stoic smile, helps his father and the Drake empire that rises slowly from the ashes like a lethargic phoenix and then lays down on his unmade bed. He never sleeps on his own volition, only when his body, exhausted from the Spartan routine, gives up.

 

His life was turned into a shampoo algorithm.

 

During one of his sleepless nights, he hears the sound of the latch of his windows being released, the creaking sound of it opening, and heavy—but disguised footsteps circling him. “I know you’re awake.” He doesn’t know the mechanic voice, but cracks a tired blue eye open to stare at a red helmet and white lenses staring back at him. He doesn’t move when the man sits down heavily on a chair and stares into his direction. “I come to Gotham to find my replacement and what do I get? A bratty blond who can’t think two steps ahead. Do you know who I am Timothy Drake?”

 

Tim groans, getting up from his bed and opening his wardrobe, the paranoia screaming in his head _don’t turn your back to him, he has guns_ , _four, as far as you can see, there is only one escape route since your chair is near the window, it will take you twelve seconds to reach the door, plus thirty to the nearest blind spot._ But Tim dismisses them while he digs underneath the pile of dirty laundry that he keeps avoiding for a small metal case. He grabs it and opens, riffling through aged photography. He throws two of them unenthusiastically over the man’s lap. “I’ve figured out long ago. You were him.” He points to a young cocky Robin, perched on a gargoyle. “And you were also him.” He lets the immortalized picture of Jason Peter Todd flutter to Red Hood’s feet.

 

“How?” He doesn’t even seems surprised, only mildly suspicious. Tim shrugs, sitting on his bed and shoving the rest of the pictures back to where they were (untouched, cursed images of his mother and the rest of the Bat-family, all of them).

 

“Dick had his acrobatic maneuver. That was his signature. Yours was shattering collarbones. Precise, but not deadly. I never suspected you to enjoy the pain you’ve inflicted onto others. But you enjoyed having less criminals on the streets. And with the rise of the numbers of drug dealers with broken collarbones, there’s only one conclusion left.” He folds his hands on his lap, crossing his legs and tilting his head curiously. “How you’re back from the dead I do not know but, I suspect there’s a Lazarus Pit involved somewhere in the chain of events, given that Ra’s tried to warn me that his daughter has released a plague into this world and I was safer beside him.” Tim leans his head into an open palm, dead eyes staring Red Hood’s white lenses glaring back at him. “If you’re looking for your “replacement”,” He air quotes with his free hand. “Then I suggest you go looking for Stephanie Brown. She’s the current Robin. For how long? We just don’t know. Now please go away, I was trying to sleep.”

 

Tim flops down into his bed, ignoring the menace that is Jason Todd—once his childhood crush, his hero that now carries guns and is paving his way to hell with a ladder of cold dead bodies. “How did he lose you, kid? You are brilliant.”

 

“Dad found out. Bruce decided that it was better for me to live a regular life and asked my ex to be his Robin.” _I never got a say in this whole thing_ is implied in the venomous tone of Tim’s voice. He reaches out, taking two pills of Prozac from his nightstand and popping them in his mouth. “Now you know the full story, just go away and leave me alone. I’ll send you the schedule of monthly visits. Ra’s has the first and fourth weeks of every month, Lex likes to come in near the 15 th day of the month. Sometimes the Titans drop in, so it’s a bit sketchy. You don’t need to worry about Catwoman though, she likes to warn me beforehand. Black Mask and Thomas Elliot have given up on me already. Superman swoops in every two months.” He points to the orange pill bottle with a tired wave of his hand. “He likes to know if I’m taking my medication. Oracle usually skypes me.”

 

Jason doesn’t answer him, the only audible sound is the scribbling on a piece of paper and the heavy footsteps come back. “You can find me here, if you want. However, I’m not looking forward to hear your self-pitying bullshit on how the world has abandoned you. We all know that’s how Bruce operates, there’s no room for the ones who lack efficiency. He just cuts everything that might stop him and his quest. We are all expendable, Timothy, you should have seen it.” Tim hears his old childhood hero retrace his steps and latches the window back, his words adding another five pounds to the weight on his chest.

 

He tosses and turns that night, even though the drugs are coaxing him to sleep—but the mechanical voice echoes through the nighttime. _Expendable._ It’s a fact he never got to think—Bruce has all of them lined up, ready to die (either physically or metaphorically) for his own selfish mission that runs in circles. In the morning he gets up—medication and sleeplessness making his movements uncoordinated and sluggish, but he dresses up, looking at the piece of paper with and address written on. Jason has a gorgeous handwriting, flowing gracefully and tilting slightly to the left—there’s a lot you can find out on a simple handwritten note: his letters are small to medium, he’s meticulous with everything he does, the tilt tells him that Jason keeps to himself (but he’s right handed, so there’s a rebellious strand sitting out), the letters are pointed, but connected artfully, consistent with systematic lines of thoughts and aggressiveness; the _i_ s are slashed, hm self-critical. There’s a lot more he can say about Jason, but he doesn’t want to think about him—or any seed that he might have planted during his visit, so Tim just folds the paper delicately, pushing it to the bottom of his wallet, adding another shift to the gravity in favor of that piece of paper.

 

Tim goes on with the motions of his life—but the world sways to the left, there’s some more spark of color in it, red mostly. Day by day he seems to feel more aware of himself, how his muscles move and how his hair has grown over the course of the months. His room starts to look tidier and there aren’t as many broken vases as it used to be. The noises still keep him up at night, he still fights with the bottle of Prozac. And it’s been months since the paper Jason wrote him figures between the bills. He’s seen some reports of Red Hood—the elusive figure that is uncatchable and has captured the heart of certain gothamites. He gets up from his bed, turning on his old notebook at placing the headset snuggly against his ear.

 

It takes him five minutes to get used to the old technology before the static cracks in his ear and he’s listening to calming deep breaths. “You shouldn’t head that way, Batman is patrolling the Tricorner Yards with Robin. Why don’t you take a look at Grant Park? I think you’ll find it enjoyable to break a serial rapist legs.” Tim is not ready for the raspy laughter—free of the mechanic tone, that flows into the speaker and into his ear, and he’s not ready for the cluck of tongue and Red Hood signaling him with a thumbs up on a camera.

 

“Seems like I’ve found my own Oracle. What’s up babybird, awake at the dead of the night? Couldn’t sleep?”

 

“I don’t sleep, Hood. Old habits die hard.” Jason laughs again, aiming his grappling gun to a higher building and swinging out of his vision.

 

“Have you tried masturbation, babybird?”

 

Tim blushes, flicking through the security cameras that cover Gotham—Nightwing is approaching the Clocktower, Batman and Robin are still patrolling the Tricorner Yards, Detective Gordon is smoking his pipe in front of the GCPD headquarters. “Have you heard about abstinence, Red Hood? They say it’s the key to a healthy long life.” Another laughter and the thump of boots and fists make him realize that Jason is busy—he comes to life on the screen, probably telling the scared woman to go before he starts raining punches on the rapist. “Eat your vegetables, brush your teeth, pray to a questionable God for forgiveness, go to bed and keep your hands away from your private areas. Hallelujah.”

 

“Thought you were Jewish.” Jason rolls his shoulders on the screen, leaving the man bruised and battered on the floor before vanishing from his view.

 

“Mom was. I still had to suffer through my Brit.”

 

“Mazel tov!”

 

“Mazel tov indeed.” Tim murmurs, flicking rapidly thorough the feeds and still keeping an eye open for any Oracle-related interferences. “So, suspect activity on Dixon Dock. Go there and see if we can stir up some trouble. B. is on the move to the W. Tower.”

 

It takes Bruce &Co. two months to catch up to their gig. Tim is waiting patiently in his room when the Wayne entourage—Bruce, Dick, Babs and Steph barge into his room during one night. Tim stirs from his bed, lowering the headphones blasting The Police to greet them through clenched teeth. “Anything wrong?” He asks, blinking his blue eyes and knocking down a roll of toilet paper. Bruce doesn’t say a thing, he stays poised angrily at the corner of his room, arms crossed and directing his kids to roam around.

 

“No problems Timmers,” Dick says cheerfully, he knows that his eyes are glistening behind white lenses. He’s messing around with the pile of clothes, looking for something that he won’t find. “It’s just that B. there suspects you’re up no good. I find it stupid, really.” The annoyance on Dick’s voice is countered with Stephanie moving gingerly through his wardrobe, trying not to look at him in the eye. Tim just stays in his bed, handing Barbara his notebook and watching her boot it up. He shrugs when Dick apologizes for riffling with his nightstand (his cheeks go deep red when he finds the carefully placed stash of condoms and lube).

 

Five minutes later, Barbara’s face goes the same shade of red—probably she just stumbled on his browser history, with a cautious roll of porn videos that he artfully selected from _twink rides bareback hunk_ to _extreme facials_. She looks extremely apologetic, nodding as if saying she’s sorry for that privacy invasion. Tim shrugs once more, trying to look small in order to fool the rest of them. None of them seems to think about looking inside his mattress to find the old notebook he’s been using. “See? Just because _his_ actions look coordinated,” Dick announces while he looks through Tim’s phone. “Doesn’t mean that _Tim_ has something to do with it, B.!”

 

“I’m just doing what I think is best, Nightwing.” A vein pops on Tim’s neck and he swallows down the urge to scream at that man. He breathes deeply, like Bruce himself taught him, but is unable to keep the bite at bay.

 

“Now that you’ve gone through all of my things, invaded my privacy in the dead of night and forced me from my bed, can you please leave?” He asks, going for the bottle of pills and swallowing two. Dry. “I have a test tomorrow.” Steph just steps out of his window, saying she’s sorry in a small voice, Dick and Babs apologize profoundly, following the Robin. Batman however, steps in closer, looming like a shadow over him.

 

“I’ll be watching you, Tim.” No comforting words, no questions about how he’s doing. _Expendable at best_ , his mind repeats to him. Tim rises up to the challenge, cocking his chin and crossing his arms—he still feels small when compared to Bruce, but now there’s a surge of bitterness, bubbling with bile on his throat and he can’t stop the snarl that twists his lips.

 

“You watch the whole Gotham, Bruce.”

 

Tim has to leave Jason in the dark for a couple of months—the unhealthy amount of paranoia is eating him again and he _knows_ that Bruce is tracking his every step. He sends Jason a message though, _I’ve slipped_. And Jason never answered him. Smart guy, every now and then the warn for Barbara hacking into his system pops up, he sees the new Bat-member, Cassandra Cain following him from afar. Dick is more vocal about their surveillance, coming up from time to time to drag him to anywhere he finds enjoyable (and Tim low-key enjoys going out with Dick, it’s like a missing brother coming home after a long time away). When the Fall comes, the family is back to silence and he finally unfolds the piece of paper and memorizes the address before burning it. Somehow, the earth’s axis around him stays tilted to the left as he traces the steps to an old warehouse in the belly of the Narrows.

 

It doesn’t look like anything out of the extraordinary, except there’s a high security lock on its front and no one opens it up to him. Tim sighs, pulling out his notebook and connecting the alarm system to it, hacking it with some degree of difficulty. When the lock opens, Jason greets him with a predatory smile—he looks both proud and ecstatic for Tim, and that’s a feeling that travels like a lightning bolt through his spine (it’s been so long, _so fucking long_ , ever since someone offered that comfort, the knowing look that says that he’s needed, he’s useful, he’s _not_ expendable).  “So,” He says, getting up from his chair and rubbing his hands cheerfully. “Now the old bat isn’t following you around, what do you want to do first?”

 

Tim places his notebook carefully on a nearby table and cracks his joints, feeling the good old giddiness fill his body. “Spar with me. Don’t take it easy.” Jason’s smile goes feral and all of his body looks ready to fight.

 

“I would never do that, babybird.” He has forgotten how good it feels to trade punches and kicks—and he doesn’t last longer than five minutes, but Jason praises him and again they go, rolling out of the padded mat and onto the cemented floor. Tim loses the notion of the time when they’re like that, giving them all, sweat rolling down their foreheads and blood being splattered on the floor. In the next few weeks he feels good—more than good, he feels alive with each punch, each recoil of a gun that Jason places carefully on his hands. “Take your time until you feel confident.” He says, but he still presses for efficiency—and Tim takes the quest seriously, relearning what he forgot, adapting to the press of his new mentor’s body against his back.

 

It’s a slow process with a curfew—he goes back at 9 p.m. to his father and Dana trading suspicious stares over the meatloaf, until one day he has to brace himself for the inescapable question of _what have you been doing going out so late_? It’s Dana who asks him while she casually serves him another portion of mashed sweet potato. Tim wriggles in his seat, fishing out for a lie and the first thing that comes to his mind is the press of Jason’s hands to his body, one of them posing over his chest, forcing him to take calming breaths and the other guiding his trembling hand to point the gun at a target. “I’m dating.” He blurts out of nowhere, the heat rising to his face as his father’s laugh booms in the dining room. His father asks him to bring his girlfriend home and Tim refuses it—her parents wouldn’t like. But Dana, curse her womanly intuition, rises an eyebrow at him while his father babbles about how good it is that he’s finally thinking ahead.

 

That night, Dana sits on his bed, one hand pressing against his shoulder and the rest of her body molded to his. “Tell me the truth, Timmy.” She asks so sweetly that Tim feels almost ashamed for lying to her—but he knows that telling Dana that he’s been walking around with Gotham’s most dangerous vigilante is a fatal mistake, so he sighs, leaning against her shoulder and feeling small again.

 

“It’s a man, Dana.” He says heavily and she just hugs him—Dana, sweet Dana seems to understand, her sweetness reassuring him that she would love him even if he was dating a NY cryptid.

 

“Just please don’t date Mothman. I hate moths.” They both laugh with the promise she’ll ease his father into it—that Jack is leaving to Arizona next week, so Tim can bring home his boy, she wants to meet him, she wants to thank whoever is making her sweet boy smile so much. “Tell me how he looks like Tim!” He sighs, hiding his face in the crook of her neck.

 

“He’s a hunk I guess? Blue eyes, black hair, thighs that could crush a man. His bicep must be like, the size of my head?” Tim feels the color rising on his cheeks—of course he can’t tell her that Jason has the most gorgeous set of scars, and how his crooked teeth are yellowed with nicotine (but he thinks it fits Jason well). “He’s build like a football player but…”

 

“Let me guess.” Dana says with a laugh, poking Tim’s stomach. “He has a cute pouch. He’s not just muscle. He likes to eat.” He blushes, nodding in and affirmative and Dana laughs again, throwing her arms around him.

 

Tim breaks the news on his next day of training, in between defusing a bomb with Jason looming over him and Lynyrd Skynyrd blasting from the speakers. Jason chokes on his lemonade, and coughs until Sweet Home Alabama fades into Born To Be Wild. “Sure thing, babybird.” He says like nothing is wrong, like the clock from the bomb isn’t ticking and he didn’t just became Tim’s official fake boyfriend. “If it buys us some more time, then count me in.”

 

The days drag until Jack’s departure and Dana is fussing on the kitchen on the day after, asking Tim if his boyfriend likes pumpkin chocolate cookies. He shrugs, turning the page of his book and changing the channels when VH1 becomes ridiculously filled with K-pop. He’s trying to swallow down the butterflies that turned into angry magpies in his stomach, pecking every surface until the doorbell rings and he is forced to open the door. The first thing he notices is that Jason has shaved and he’s wearing a Blüd Warriors Jersey, the insistent lock of white hair is falling over his left eye and behind them, Dana sighs with admiration, inviting Jason in and complimenting him over his football choices.

 

Tim spends the afternoon with Jason’s arm draped over his shoulders, his warm form molded perfectly to his—Dana is nothing but smitten with Jason and how over the course of their conversation he devoured the cookies. He says he’s a literature major and Tim and he met at the library and they fell in love. He praises Tim for his brain and his physical condition, which Jason knew that Dana watched over after Batman abandoned him.

 

The only thing Tim didn’t expect from their encounter is the feel of Jason’s arms around his waist and the mouth pressed firmly over his—and how he didn’t miss a bit in getting on the tip of his toes to deepen the kiss. They both taste like pumpkin, coffee and chocolate and Tim melts when Jason’s tongue explores his mouth curiously. “See you this week babybird?” He asks like this new development isn’t new at all. Like he had always whispered against Tim’s moist lips.

 

It becomes a recurrent joke, whenever he does something right, Jason leans in and steals a kiss. “Dana needs to believe it.” He says with a wink, probably enjoying the blush rising on Tim’s cheeks. They both know Dana isn’t there, it’s a flimsy excuse for those pecks. But none of them comment on it.

 

Until Tim, dizzy from an intense sparring match, stumbles into his usual seat, mindlessly assembles a Zastava under three minutes and fires a shot into the target without flinching. Jason jumps on him, attacking his mouth like a hungry man and he has to stop the flail of his arms to put the Zastava safely away and grab the black strands of hair to bring him closer. He tastes a lot better with all pretenses abandoned, he kisses like _Jason Todd_ would, teeth biting into his plush lips, tongue parting them to rub against his—and the hands that don’t know where to stop, going down from his ribs to the meat of his thighs, imprinting his digitals for the future in the form of purplish bruises that blossom from red petals on his skin. “Fuck babybird, fuck this whole pretending shit, spend the weekend training here.”

 

Tim leans his head back on the concrete, covering his eyes with an arm and laughs—really laughs for what it feels like years and Jason kisses the fluttering pulse of his carotid then sinks his sharp teeth onto the delicate skin, sucking it until there’s a purple ring decorating the pale column of his neck. “I’ll talk to Dana about it.”

 

He does talk to Dana about it, and she allows him to spend his weekends with Jason—albeit a little reluctantly when he shows up with the first hickey his shirt is unable to cover. So, from then on, his Friday nights turned into his personal Oracle playdays, sitting around in one of Jason’s safehouses and guiding him. Saturdays were the busy days, when they prepare to anything that might come up on the busiest patrol day—including Bruce trying to figure out the erratic pattern of their routes; Sundays are lazy days in which Tim sprawls himself on Jason’s lap and they plan for the rest of their week, stablishing different patrol routes generated by and algorithm that runs on his computer.

 

The usual Sunday mornings are filled with his training, then lounging around the living room until it’s time to go. When Fall starts to leave and Winter comes, is when everything falls apart, the wind outside safehouse five (Tim’s favorite, located on top of a coffee shop that serves what seems to be the most delicious waffles he’s ever tasted) takes a strange turn—it’s an event he knows intimately and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he turns his head on Jason’s lap to face the window. Kon is hovering near it, looking shocked and at loss for words.

 

Tim sighs, getting up on bare feet and inviting the meta in—he ignores the change of rhythm of Jason’s hands, the placid pull and push of him cleaning his gun stops and the trio is kept in a sort of pregnant silence, since no one seems to be ready for the inevitable conversation. It’s Kon who takes a deep breath and starts in a panicked, _no scratch that_ , angered voice. “I come all the way from the Tower to see you… And Dana tells me you have a girlfriend. I come looking for you because I really could go for a Star Wars marathon and you’re with… _Him_.” He snarls his last words, squared and perfect chin pointing to Jason who now rests his pistols over his thigh, his hand creeping dangerously close to the silver metal. “What the actual hell, Tim? What are you doing? Does Batman knows it?”

 

The former boy wonder shifts in his stance, his body ready to pounce—but he crosses his arms and cocks his head, staring at Conner with blue eyes that seem far too cold. “Kon,” He croaks, redirecting the meta’s stare from Jason. “It was a conscious decision. _I_ was the one who chose to be here.” Kon opens his mouth, but Tim stops him with a raised open palm, so the clone just adjusts his tense jaw, fingers clenching into fists. “And Kon, I truly wish you’d respect my choices. Since when I’ve made a decision that wasn’t calculated?” The boy seems to rake his brain for an answer, but his eyes keep wandering to where Jason is located. “The way I see it, you have but two choices.” The words sounds familiar—heck everything screams familiarity to Tim, one must say that his practiced posture and controlled tone of voice comes from Batman, but no, on the nearest surface he sees his own mother, blue eyes slit dangerously like his; hips cocked to the right and the subtle swallow that lubricates a dry throat before a speech.  “A—you respect my choice, you respect _me_ as your former leader and above everything, you respect me as your best friend and as a human being who’s capable of discerning what’s good from what’s bad and you sit here with _us_.” Because if he’s being true to himself, he and Jason had become one in many aspects beyond physical affection, to a point where the frontiers of their beings starts to become blurred. “And we can watch Star Wars and Batman or anyone else won’t hear a thing about it.”

 

Tim licks his lips, taking a deep breath and staring Kon in the too blue eyes he was once in love with. “Or B. You disregard everything about me and our friendship. You leave now and tell _everyone_ what you just saw. Broadcast it for the world to see, and we’ll welcome them with hot lead and kryptonite. Either way, we’ll still be here, the choice is purely yours. Take your time.” His voice is all Janet and he suspects his mother would be proud—if he wasn’t doing so to defend his relationship with a murderous vigilante. Kon does takes his time, his eyes flying from Jason to Tim before his body falls into the burgundy armchair, as if the action caused him physical pain. Tim thanks him with a smile, moving back to his spot on the sofa and resting his feet on Jason’s lap to flick through the Netflix catalog. They stay immersed in the tense silence until halfway through the second movie, when it starts to dissipate like a thick fog being cut in half and the road ahead them looks brighter.

 

Jason keeps himself silent the whole time, his eyes glued to the screen while Tim and Kon ease slowly into their pleasant banter—like riding a bike after years of not gripping the handles. And when the afternoon comes to an end, there’s no sluggishness on Tim’s movement when he steps in to wrap his arms around Kon. There are no words exchanged about Tim’s predicament, only the sort of comfort of having an old friend holding him so close, reluctantly accepting his choice. The kind of feeling someone might get when moving into their first apartment, alone and scared, but still having their childhood blanket, smelling like lavender and _home_.

 

“How did you do that?” Jason asks when Kon is out and Dana had already sent a message agreeing on Tim staying just one more day with his boyfriend. Tim shrugs, laying down on the older man’s lap and looking into his eyes.

 

“My mom used to do that. You can always put someone in a hard spot if you know what to do.” He raises his hand, tracing the sharp contours of Jason’s cheekbones. “You give them the choice _you_ want them to make _first_ , people unconsciously lean towards the first thing you give them, they are afraid of what’s waiting for them. So you take what you want, but you present it how you want them to see it. You turn them against themselves with a little bit of guilty trip. But you don’t give them a broader outcome, let them hang on the guilt. Then you present the choice they’re most likely to make, but you give it a terrible outcome, usually correlated to your guilt source. Instinctively, people start to connect what they considered a “bad” choice to a favorable or neutral outcome and the “good” choice to a terrible outcome.” Tim smiles, pressing the pad of his thumb against Jason’s lips and accepts the kiss he places there. “You just need to find the gap in their decision and explore it. And if the first outcome isn’t what they thought it would be,” He shrugs again, looking at the suggestions Netflix gives them. “it’s not your fault. You withheld information, for sure, but it was _ultimately their choice._ ”

 

The half-light of the television doesn’t gives much illumination to Jason’s expression, if anything, it deepens the lines around his mouth and makes his eyes look more Persian green than blue. He’s looking at Tim as if he was a puzzle, dissecting him slowly and understanding the meaning behind his words and actions. He leans in slowly, pink lips pressing against his in a faint memory of their first fake kiss (sugary and caring, as if they have nothing to worry about) and with a press of teeth to his bottom lip, he kisses like Jason Todd once more, plunging his mouth as if he wants nothing but to _devour_ him, like he wants Tim to taste the faint tang of nicotine for days.

 

Tim reaches out for the soft black curls on Jason’s head, pressing them together as if he can freeze time and they’ll both be turned into marble statues, locked forever in some kind of intimate fervor. Tim feels the shudders hitting his body when Jason pulls away, his hot breath puffing directly into his mouth. “You are amazing, babybird.”

 

The New Year’s Eve comes and go without a midnight kiss, and the following week rolls around without Jason in his life and an unbearable amount of the presence of a certain Bruce Wayne and his wards swarming in his new house. Jack Drake wants to celebrate the Drake Industries rise from the ashes, and invites them to many lunches and dinners by the grill. He may not have liked what Bruce did to his son, _obviously_ , who would like a man that puts kids life in danger? But the animosity dims with the passage of seasons and he seems to be getting fonder of the bunch of misfit kids that follow Batman around.

 

Tim is sitting by the frozen shrubs when Dick Grayson approaches him, a warm drink in his calloused hands and a suspicious lack of smile pulling the corner of his lips. “Hey Tim, mind if we talk a bit?” He shrugs, Dick, right after Alfred, is the best member of the Wayne family, even though he acts more like Bruce than he would like to admit. Right now, he looks troubled, as if he was losing a battle against an invisible force that makes him look older than he really is. “I’m going back to Blüd. Things aren’t looking too bright and I need to breathe.” The thing about living with Bruce Wayne that no one talks about is how someone larger-than-life can compress you into a shadow, even if that’s not his intention. Tim felt it when his mantle was taken from his hands. Batman is something none of them can reach and they stay under his wing until it feels too oppressive or you mess up something. He places a hand on Dick’s shoulder, pressing the tense muscle with gentleness. Out of everyone under Batman’s shadow, Dick carries the heaviest burdens, but doesn’t allow himself to show anyone how bad is the damage.

 

“I’m always here if you need, Dick.” He says softly, pressing the older man into a one armed hug. “Watch your back and bring some Blüd Warriors merch when you come back.” With that, he’s implying that Dick will do that, he won’t stay away from too long—his roots are firmly planted under Gotham’s putrid soil. “Dana and I will love it.” Dick leans into him, wrapping himself on Tim’s smaller form and taking deep breaths—for someone so full of love, Dick gets so little affection that it sounds heartbreaking. “If you’re in need of a helping hand, I will always be here.”

 

Dick shakes his head in a negative, pressing his lips tenderly against Tim’s forehead. “I could never ask you that. Not after all you’ve been through. Not after you got better.” Tim swallows the urge to tell Dick he never _got better_ , that he’s still addicted to the adrenaline of the fight, but he shuts his lips and accepts the affection, which he might have confused with love if Jason haven’t taken up all the space in his heart.

 

He doesn’t talk to Jason about it, he just worms himself in the shitty warehouse number two’s shower and pretends he’s not thinking about it when Jason presses bites to his nape, murmuring how he loves the new haircut. Tim only moans, accepting the warm press of his body fighting the chills from the cold water that cascades downs his shoulder and wounds hand around Jason’s thick black strands of hair.

 

“No sex in the shower, Jason.” He warns, letting his chin hit his chest as Jason progresses with his mouth towards a shoulder blade. Jason groans against his skin and kills the shower, dragging their wet bodies to the small mat to dry themselves. Tim just goes with the motions, allowing himself to be primped by Jason then led by the hand to the naked mattress on the floor. He closes his eyes and welcomes Jason’s mouth mapping his chest while his hands run over the scars decorating the older man’s body—it’s the sort of intimacy that they’ve been tethering around for months but never allowed themselves to have. But now seems almost vital when Jason closes his mouth around a nipple and settles himself between his legs; he reaches out for the unopened bottle of lube that’s been laying around, lathers his fingers with the transparent gel and presses the tip of his index into Tim’s body. Jason is nothing but attentive, searching the younger man’s face for any sign of discomfort as he moves the digit slowly, until he feels him relaxing and adds another finger.

 

Tim moans lowly, closing his eyes and immersing himself in the hypnotic sensation of Jason fingering him, the slow, calming breaths puffing against his mouth. It was nothing like he ever expected from the vigilante that barged into his room months ago—he would never expect the soft kisses and questions about how he was feeling, promptly answered with moans and open legs that invited him to do so much more. “Calm down babybird.” Jason laughs, his tongue rolling around a hardened bud and his fingers looking for Tim’s prostate. He’s trying to take it slow, but the more Jason teases him, the more he sinks his teeth into Tim’s flesh, the more Tim wants him buried inside him. The former Robin stops Jason with a hand on the center of his chest, pushing him away and turning around on all fours.

 

“Fuck me, Jason.”  He says, burying his head between his arms and raising his hips. The man behind him growls, sinks his finger possessively over his hipbones and drags his cock from Tim’s taint to his hole. Tim moans again, the threat of being pounded weighting in his mind as he wriggles his hips. He’s prepared when he listens to Jason lubing himself and lining up, pressing the head of his cock until the muscles give in and welcome him. “Fuck, Jay.” Tim whines, pressing his body against Jason until he’s bottoming out.

 

Jason moans, growls, leans down and bites his shoulder, controlling himself and relishing on how warm and _tight_ Tim feels around him. He finally lets himself go when Tim asks for more, as pushes and pull their hips together—the slap of his thighs against Tim’s almost drown out the pleas Tim is uttering _more, fuck, more, yes, please_ , he asks, disconnecting himself from the reality and diving into the moment when Jason’s cock is deep inside him, in short, harsh thrusts that nail his prostate from time to time. “Fuck, Jason” Tim moans once more, feeling his body tremble when Jason reduces the rhythm to a slow pull. “Cocktease.”

 

Jason laughs, pressing one hand to Tim’s chest and the other winding up around his cock. He brings Tim up, kissing the juncture on his neck and shoulder. “Next time,” He says a little breathlessly, feeling Tim’s arms holding him by the back of his neck and their mouths search for each other while he keeps fucking the younger man. “I want to see your face.” Tim moans as Jason hands moves up and down on his cock with ease. “I want to see what I do to you.” He moans again, feeling Jason press against his prostate with every thrust now, fanning the hot embers that burn on his belly. “I want to see you fall apart for me.” Tim cries when Jason presses a thumb into the sensitive spot under the cockhead, his index finger capturing a bead of precum on his slit. “I want to see every little reaction as you come.” The younger ex-Robin bites Jason’s lips, lets it roll between his pearly teeth.

 

“I want you to show me everything you’ve never shown anyone.” He feels the first tears moistening the corner of his eyes as Jason fucks him harder, and he falls apart with a trembling moan that resembles Jason’s name—a bit too soon, but he’s been wet-dreaming about this moment ever since he knew what masturbation was, he’s been toying with the idea ever since he saw reborn Jason shirtless for the first time. And now, with his cock buried so deep inside him and his hand, splayed against his chest like when he first taught him to use a gun, it’s inevitable to feel the orgasm shaking his whole body, making him clench against Jason’s cock.

 

“Jason.” He calls, still caught in the haze, feeling the man behind him lose any semblance of rhythm and just pound into his body, chasing his own pleasure now that Tim moans from oversensitivity and his cum is warm on his hand. “Next time I’ll look in your eyes while I come. And from now on there will only be your name in my mouth when I come.” Tim curls his fingers on Jason’s still wet curls, keeping his head in place as he breathes and bites his lips. “Jason.” He repeats in a moan that seems to tip the man over the edge, making him burry himself inside Tim and moan loudly against his mouth. Jason is breathing harshly, his heart beating a mile per second against Tim’s spine. He’s trying to say something, but it comes in disjointed syllables—which Tim understands, and replicates with a soft _I love you too_. 

 

January passes in a haze of sex and confessions—Tim’s time at home dimming as he trains and fucks like there isn’t a tomorrow to live, like it will never come if he doesn’t taste Jason. And the addiction is reciprocated: Jason shows up on the campus unannounced and drags him to a corner—he kisses like they haven’t seen each other for months. February rolls around in less snow and more heat, caught up between hickeys and punches. And when March comes around, Tim spins on his chair to face Jason, raising an eyebrow towards the folded clothes in his hands.

 

“Suit up, Tim. We have patrol to do.” His chin drops to the floor as he _sprints_ to get his new costume—he can’t wait until he feels the latex and the Kevlar snug against his body, the black mask covering his face is a good addition. He welcomes the collapsible bo staff under his cape and grunts at the alien weight of the guns pressed snuggly against his thighs (which he told Jason time and time again he’d rather not use), but he moves around effortlessly as he and Red Hood climb to the top of warehouse seven, facing the city house with their grapple guns on their hands. “Ready, Red Robin?”

 

Tim laughs, bumping his shoulder on Jason’s armor. “What? Why are you laughing, babybird?”

 

“You know, Red Hood, most couples have matching sweaters _,_ not aliases.” He fires the gun, feeling like he’s young again as he soars through Gotham’s architecture. “Catch me if you can, Applehead.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am always ready to trade punches @[beta-lactamase](http://beta-lactamase.tumblr.com/), but come talk to me too, I'm always up for chatting.


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